Decay
by detox
Summary: This is the story of losing one's path, and until demons of old are purged the host's spirit will surely...


Disclaimer: New Line Cinema owns Freddy Krueger and all copyrighted A Nightmare On Elm Street related material. I own nuffin.

Author's Comments: Pulled the plug on planned "Ready The Troops..and Excuses?" chapter in favor of beefing up the "False Start Of Reconcile and Rehabilitation" chapter. Minor edits to previously existing content. Chapter two, "Indictment Of The Deterred Trooper", is almost done. I just need to run a fine-tooth comb through it once more before posting.

This is the story of losing one's path, and until demons of old are purged the host's spirit will surely...

**DECAY**

Written by _ detox_

Chapter One - False Start Of Reconcile and Rehabilitation

The flames spiraled and contorted as heat and humidity leaned against the leader's stoical stance. Hateful hymns filled the Midwestern air, fueled by bravado and assurance of the unit. Through two peepholes the leader could see an army marching in place, before him, with rhyme and reason. Beneath a veil of hate stood Clark McDonald, proud member of the number three division of the Klu Klux Klan. He eyed his brethren, taking account of the swelling number in member ranks tonight. Plain clothed, hooded, it didn't matter, but the deed certainly did. Clark stepped forward, and paced to the middle of the formation. He reached towards his face to pull back his hood, and prepared to speak. "My brothers, we have cleared the evil, of the great town of Springwood, that has been plaguing us for years", he motioned. He stepped towards a member, and yanked back their hood, exclaiming, "for years, goddamit!"

"No longer can that low-down, lousy, queer chicken shit do you harm! You know why", he rhetorically asked, getting an immediate "why" in response, "Cause we _fried his ass_. Anybody that wants to bring crime, perversion, or evi--" Clark halted mid-sentence as muffled screams of help were blurted from a figure tied to the flaming crucifix. Part of a potato sack was wrapped around the victim's head, bounded to her neck by way of rope. The sack's depths alternating with each word and breath. Frustrated, Clark reached underneath his robe, pulling out a .22 handgun, and thusly pulling back the safety. The screams were silenced by the disarming sounds of consecutive gunshots. The body twitched with each bullet until the head finally slouched to the side. Dead. McDonald turned around, putting his pistol away, stating, "Sympathizers, such as this one, will be shown extreme prejudice. By God, if I so far as to _speculate_ one of you feeling sorry for that demon, I will do the deed.. personally."

A brisk morning coupled with whistling of a tea kettle welcomed Clark's eyes to open. Turning over, vacancy of his wife's side laid before him, but he quickly turned back over to swing his feet into his slippers. He shook off the cobwebs, stretching and yawning. While he stretched he noticed his wife, distraught and solemn, shakily holding her coffee while weeping. "Hon", Clark asked, making his way for the kitchen. A chair screeched along the floor as his wife sat down. Coming closer, Clark noticed she was looking down at something. It was a picture. A picture of Jessica McDonald. First and only born daughter. Clark was taken aback by the picture, striking a nerve that hasn't been hit hard since the funeral, mourning, and religious counseling. Tears from Clark's wife began to form on the picture. Clark calmly put his arms around her, stating, "I know, Hon. I know, but remember what Father Erin said. God wants us to persevere." Still sobbing, Clark's wife, Jane McDonald, an emotionally torn brunette, tried to catch herself to speak. "I know we're supposed to be 'healed' and 'recovered', but out of the clear blue I began to have terrible thoughts about it", she said, towing the line between hysteria and normalcy.

"Jane?!? Clark?!?"

Thudded knocks rang out as Clark quickly handed Jane a handkerchief and rushed to the door. Through the drapes he could see it was clearly Baxter Dunn, Springwood's top judge and close friend. Clark opened the door, but was surprised as Baxter invited himself in. Sitting down on a sofa, he looked up at Clark, who sat down on a nearby recliner. Adam's Apple gulping, Baxter began to speak, "Clark, I know it's been quite a while, but I need to inform of you some bad news." Clark sat back in his chair, subliminally collecting guesses on what could it be dealing with, holding his arms out in inviting fashion. Baxter obliged, continuing, "a private investigator was hired by the Rizzo family to look into the disappearance of Belinda." Clark sighed, resting his middle finger on his top lip and his index on his nose, "fucking grease balls", he muttered. Approaching steps came from the kitchen as Jane stood in the doorway, Clark's eyes immediately tracking her as she appeared. Baxter followed Clark's eyes, turning around to see Jane McDonald, tray with coffee adorned on it. The two men were silent as Jane placed the tray on the coffee table, and headed out of the room. Baxter took a double take to make sure she was gone before he resumed his conversation. The coast was clear. Clark hunched over as Baxter followed, "my little girl died, Dunn. You know that. I don't have any sympathy for anybody who supported Krueger, and I never will. Besides, without the gun, nothing is traced back to me", Clark stated. Trying to hide his uncertainty over the ordeal, Baxter stood, and said, "right. Well, I just wanted to let you know face-to-face. This isn't something you or the town needs right now." Saying their goodbyes, Dunn exited the house.

Yet what Judge Dunn had just laid upon Clark's lap had finally began to seep into Clark's mind. Jane's arm reached around his waist. "Be honest with me, Clark. What's going on", she asked whispery. Clark looked down at her arm, prepared to give a canned answer when the sonic clap of a gunshot echoed throughout the street. "What the hell", Clark exclaimed, walking onto the porch to see a colored man holding his side as he ran down the street. Two mischievous looking men followed behind him, knocking the colored man to ground with the brunt of a gun. Clark stepped down off the porch to run over to the situation. He shoved the two men off the victim, asking, "what the hell is going on?" Exhausted from running, one of the mischievous men responded between breaths, "ole Clyde here has been running his mouth off with witchcraft!" Clark, barely paying attention to his response, looked the colored man in his eyes as the blood stain on his shirt began to spread. "Get this man some help", Clark ordered, snatching the gun away from the other man. Confused, the men hung around, but another shove sent them on their way. The victim began to roll on his healthy side, yet returning to his former position as Clark nudged him over with a slight push of the leg. "Is that really what this is about", he asked. The victim had a paranoid look on his face, not wanting any further trouble. "Answer me, damn it", Clark egged on. "Fred-k-k", the victim's words were beginning to choke with each gulp of blood. "Out of the way, McDonald", said an EMT, as ambulance crew rushed to help the victim. Something afoul is in Springwood. "Krueger", McDonald thought. Clark grimaced as he headed back into his house. "Hey, Mac", yelled a voice. Clark turned to see one of the attackers shouting from the street, and opened his screen door to respond. The shouting man hustled up the steps to greet Clark, yet McDonald didn't have time for hand shakes and well wishes. He motioned for the man to get on with whatever he wanted to tell him. He obliged, "that ole nigra was crying wolf, I figured we would shut him up before he upset the whole town. So, me and Tim we--". "Where was Krueger buried", Clark interrupted, getting the face of the man. The man began to cower in ignorance, "the graveyard, I guess. We followed you to the rally, remember? Kinney said he'd take care of it." Clark had to re-direct his goals, but it was no sweat off his back. As long as the deed is declared done.

A patch of soil plopped onto a nearby pile of its brethren, moisture rolling off into steam, as excess trembled to the ground. Grim nightfall loomed over the two men as they searched the grave site of Fred Krueger. "You asshole, I'm not going to dig any deeper in this hole. We threw him down there, and that's that. He's dead", said an exhausted Kinney, wiping the sweat off his forehead while leaning on his shovel. Seated atop a nearby head stone, Clark lit a cigarette, and looked up at Kinney, replying, "keep digging". Frustrated, Kinney threw his shovel to the ground, and grabbed Clark by the collar, "I told you, fucker, that I ain't going to dig any deeper!" Clark snapped his fingers in motion to the shovel, and calmly said, "give me the shovel". Kinney turned and headed for the shovel. McDonald slowly stalked behind him, and as Kinney neared the shovel and the hole, Clark shoved him in. Dirt, worms, dried plant roots, and other night crawlers covered Kinney as he frantically whisked away at the insects and dirt. Clark lifted the shovel, and threw it down at the hole. Banging and clacking, it landed on a solid surface. Fred Krueger's coffin. "Now open it up, Kinney, or by God, I'll burn you alongside a mongrel if it's the last thing I do", threatened Clark. Kinney moved to the side of the coffin, trying not to lose his footing in the hole, and bashed the lock of the coffin until it cracked. Pulling it off with his hand, he popped it open to reveal the bones of Fred Krueger. "Hmm", quipped Clark, convinced, but only slightly relieved. Taking off his jacket, he threw it down to a confused Kinney. McDonald continued, "Wrap them up in the jacket. We're putting them in a new spot." Wrapping up the bones, Kinney tossed the pouch up to Clark.

In his hands was one of the most heinous serial molester and killer, Fred Krueger.

The beeping of heart monitors and vitality gauges cluttered the aural space around injured Clyde. Shot in the ribs, and wrapped in bandages that blood has already overtaken, Clyde couldn't muster the energy to complain or find offense in the life support attached to a nearby boy who had merely kidney stones. This was his deathbed. He accepted it, but he also knew that somebody _must_ find out before its too late. A familiar call and response of footsteps neared him as a stern nurse stood at the foot of his bed. "Visitor's here", she snarled, not wasting another second on poor Clyde. Behind her followed Clark McDonald, a man's considered one of Springwood's most vile racists. Yet this was now irrelevant to Clyde, who's information comes to those in which righteousness prevails and a warning for those in which it does not. Weak from the gunshot wound and poor medical care, Clyde merely whisked his hand at McDonald, as Clark pulled his ear closer. Clyde wheezed, "I was a librarian for the former colored-only library. Fred Krueger would come to our library because we were the ones who got the bulk of the 'forbidden' literature. Occult, mythology, witchcraft, and such." Sighing, Clyde looked over at his heart monitor, coming to grips with his mortality. He continued, "no sin will ever haunt you more than messing with that man. He's some kind of evil, but not just any kind. Something else. Here..", from underneath Clyde's side he pulled a torn page and handed it to Clark. Clark inspected it, and looked up at Clyde, "reincarnation? give me a fucking break". The lines spaced out on Clyde's heart monitor, but he pushed on, "I knew somebody would be interested, so I went ahead and took out some pages of Krueger's last books. You have to prepare for this. I know you feel that something's wrong, otherwise we wouldn't be here. You have got to act now. Don't let the warnings accumulate, because by then it'll be too late." Clark began to further read the page when a hand slipped onto his left shoulder, the cold embrace of a nurse. "Excuse me, sir", said the nurse, pushing past McDonald to Clyde's bed side. Clark nodded a goodbye to Clyde, and headed out of the hospital knowing the odd occurrence of Jane's reemerging grief and Baxter's message wasn't a coincidence.

The cedar wood carved benches were filled, elbow-to-elbow, with Springwood residents. Amongst the crowd Clark anxiously stood behind a podium, and figured this to be the best time to alert the town. Cutting through the mixture of confident, confused, bored, and angry looks, Clark began to speak. "I am here to alarm the town of Springwood." Certain heads in the crowd perked in attention, but the majority remained indifferent. "Fred Krueger is not dead", Clark stated, leaning on the podium with palms outward. Gasps and shouts of disagreement rung out in the meeting center as McDonald realized the absolute truth was too potent to be dealt at this moment. Backpedaling, Clark altered his approach in attempt to not be passed off as a loony, continuing, "his spirit will haunt this town through the media and curious kids poking about. So, I took it upon myself to remove Krueger's remains from his grave until a new, secure burial site is decided." A dirty, dusty denim jacket plopped onto the podium as McDonald lowered it down. A local shot from his chair at the sight, pointing, "I know you've been through a lot with the death of your daughter, but Clark..you've got to let it go. This town has got to let Krueger go, regardless of where his remains are buried." The expression on Clark's face hardened, and he mentally reached down into his "other" public speaking bag of tricks. "See? That's the problem. You treat a threat as if it were harmless, and then it runs through the town like locusts in Cairo", Clark said. "You got to weed out the problem now!" Citizens began emptying the back rows as McDonald seemingly aimlessly carried on. The numbers dwindled until a scant few residents were left in the hall. McDonald stepped away from the podium, remains in hand, and walked towards the remaining residents. "Well, what do you gentlemen think", Clark asked, " I say we find a place no one can fuck with this bones."

A dark haired man spoke up, answering, "I'm just a new recruit working the beat, but if this Krueger guy is that big of a threat then I don't see why we shouldn't hide those remains."

The crackling and hiss of raging fire filled the aural space with dominance. Flames stretched abound into infinity, angrily contorted with precision and purpose. A silhouette of a man raised from the dirt around him, with dust particles falling off to reveal Fred Krueger's freshly burned body. After attempting to familiarize himself with the surroundings, Krueger grew frustrated as the flesh from his eyebrow area was fused to his cheek, obscuring his view. Reaching down he snatched at the ground until finally gripping the welcoming fur of his Fedora. Beyond Fred Krueger's eye sight, the flames began to separate, and the division of fire revealing a path. Noticing a sonic hole in his surroundings, Krueger began to descend the path, with each step trudging through the feathery and crisp assorted mix of ash. With a slipping of his foot, Fred slid down the ash pile until meeting the foot of a doorway. Stumbling through it, Fred painfully stood to his feet. Three dream demons quickly turned to see this burned being standing before them. Swirling around his head, they began to speak in unison: "we have had our eye on you just as long as you've had your eye on us. Your services will begin immediately." Krueger tried to respond, but couldn't as his lips were fused together. Tiring of the flesh fusions, he began to painfully tear away at his lips, leaving only slivers of flesh atop his recessed bottom lip. Yelling in exhaustion, his pain felt as if he'd been lying in that dirt for ages. Testing them, he asked, "sleep is my dominion?" "Yes", buzzed back a dream demon. "Then I'm going to kill every single one of them", Krueger sneered.

"One", they said in unison, swaying the bag. "Two". "Three", they exclaimed, throwing the sack of Fred Krueger's remains into the hollowed front end of a Cadillac Coup de Ville. After slamming the hood shut, Clark and the others began methodically chaining the hood. "This fucker is never coming back, and neither will his presence", Clark said, putting on a final padlock to seal the deal. Again. The crew chatted it up, but seized when the crumble of rocks churning under tires approached them. A member of Clark's Klan, he exited the car and began hastily walking towards the crowd. "Shit", McDonald muttered, remembering the scheduled meeting. "Sir, the meeting has already started with an opener and a 'word' speaker, but we really need you to close", the member pleaded. Clark sighed, and shot back, "pick up an alternate or just get up there and do it yourself". The Klansman's eyes drooped, lacking confidence, lightly muttering, "they're not going to accept that coming from me, Clark." With his mission seemingly accomplished for the night, Clark headed for his car while waving over at the Klansman, who followed into his own car. "Hey", shouted one of the Krueger buriers, "you think this fucker's locked tight?" Clark merely shot a wave out his window, and headed out of the junkyard. Onward, Christian soldier.


End file.
